The Twiller

by David Derrico

  Instead, he merely stood near an empty bench and waited for the subway train to arrive. The bench appeared to be empty mainly because it boasted rows of spikes interspersed with superheated metal coils, presumably to dissuade vagrants from sleeping on it. Looking down the platform at several similar benches, almost all of which were empty, Ian had to agree that the deterrents were, for the most part, doing their jobs.

  Standing next to Ian was a burly alien in a black trench coat. It sidled up beside Ian, glancing about for police officers (of which Ian saw none) or perhaps hidden cameras. Out of the corner of its mouth, which was conveniently located on its shoulder near Ian’s ear, the stranger whispered, “Hey man, want a watch?”

  Ian glanced over and the alien casually flicked open its trench coat, revealing gleaming rows of watches on each side. Now, while Ian was hardly “cosmopolitan,” or particularly “street smart,” even he knew a scam when he saw it. The watches were undoubtedly cheap pieces of junk, obviously fake gold or silver or platinum, would surely break within days if not sooner, and probably kept crappy time, to boot. “No thanks,” chuckled Ian, sidestepping further down the platform and away from the alien scam artist.

  “No, seriously,” the alien persisted as Ian backed away. “These are great watches, super premium high-quality stuff. Lemme just tell you about some of the features. This baby here can actually—”

  Ian cut the con man off with a wave of his hand. “I’m good,” he replied with confidence, brandishing his $19.99 mail-order special watch, which to be honest needed to be adjusted at least twice a week and showed bare metal in several places where the fake gold tone had chipped off. Ian smiled to himself as the alien shrugged and moved on through the crowd. I’m not your typical sucker, Ian thought confidently to himself.

  Soon thereafter, a brightly decorated tram pulled up to the platform. It had a complex pattern of pictures and alien words written across it, which Ian belatedly identified as graffiti. The doors opened and an avalanche of aliens streamed out past Ian. Once the rush had stopped, Ian fought his way into the train, making sure the Twiller got inside before the doors snapped closed. Ian was jostled and pushed up against a window, where he looked back to the platform and the departing mass of aliens. Standing out in its dark trench coat, like a rock anchored against the tide of creatures, was the alien who had tried to sell Ian a shoddy watch, and Ian chuckled to himself as the aliens pushed past the con man.

  With a lurch, the tram began to move down the corridor and Ian looked about the crowded subway car, yet another example of alien “technology” that was no better than what he had experienced on Earth. As he grinned smugly to himself, the tram reached the dimensional portal and seamlessly reappeared several million light-years away. Ian mistook the brief flash that accompanied this phenomenal journey as coming from a passing light on the tunnel wall.

  . . . . .

  As the train pulled away from the station, a slim alien wearing an expensive suit walked across the platform and headed for the exits. It paused as the watch seller approached and flashed its wares. With a moment of thought, the well-dressed alien picked out a watch from the folds of the trench coat and handed over its credit chit. The watch salesman gave the customer its chosen watch and thanked it for the purchase.

  The slim alien slipped its new watch over the wrist on its third-longest arm, letting out a small sigh as the watch changed the alien’s personal temporal field, sending the cells of its body back in time to when they were in a younger, healthier state. The traveler then entered some coordinates on the far side of the Universe into the screen (which was made of perfectly clear diamond and surrounded by a pure platinum bezel), shimmered for a moment, and disappeared as the watch instantly teleported the creature to its chosen destination.

  * * * * *

  Part X

  The subway tram rumbled to a stop and the aliens aboard surged out. Ian wasn’t quite sure where he was, but he seemed to have little choice in the matter. He went along with the movement of the crowd, stepping off the tram and onto a marginally cleaner platform than the one he had left in York. The Twiller seemed to recognize the place, however, and Ian followed it through the maze of aliens and up a stairway to emerge outside.

  The subway exit opened into the edge of a large square, with a grassy lawn and a large pond at one end. In the center was a large shopping structure topped by a white obelisk. Hanging from the obelisk was a banner that read: “National Mall—Clearance Prices Up To 80% Off Retail!” A great many aliens milled about, entering and exiting the mall, but Ian skirted around the domed building.

  As he approached the pond, Ian walked by a statue of a vaguely humanoid alien on horseback. The statue was so similar to one he might have seen on Earth, that Ian hardly noticed the extra pair of legs on the horse. At the base of the statue was a carved inscription:

  IN HONOR OF

  Our First President

  Wosh Mington

  A chorus of shouts drew Ian’s attention away from the statue, and he looked across the square to see a medium-sized crowd gathered off to one end. He walked over that way, where he could see a particularly untrustworthy alien standing on a platform with its voice booming out of several nearby speakers. As Ian got closer, he noticed that the speaker’s clothing was garishly colored and covered with various corporate logos—it was some bizarre combination of a business suit and race-car driver’s outfit. There were various advertisement banners and holograms vying for attention on and around the platform as well. Ian walked a bit closer to listen to the speaker.

  “So, friends, if elected, I promise to uphold all the platforms of my campaign, which is brought to you by Quasar Cola Company. Quasar Cola gives you that jolt you need to get you through your day … just like my incentives for businesses will give our economy a jolt and provide jobs for all our citizens!”

  There was a muted cheer from the assembled crowd, although many of those in attendance seemed only peripherally interested in the candidate’s speech, and several seemed to be checking their watches.

  “And I promise,” the candidate intoned, “that I will fight for the ‘common being,’ just like the law firm of Hoopenstein, Magmar, & Tooleywaggon promises to fight for your rights if you’ve been in an accident. My brave new ideas will reduce, no, eliminate taxes, increase services, pay off all our intergalactic debt, and”—here, he paused, clearly making this up as he went along—“provide three Deluxe-O-Matic personal service droids to every household!”

  A few people murmured in agreement, and the crowd started to disperse as the politician’s speech wound down. Many of the people in attendance carried electronic signs, which they switched off as they walked away. Ian watched as the departing supporters ambled over to other podiums surrounded by other small knots of people. Often, they would switch their sign back on and change it to match the particular candidate they were listening to.

  Ian caught up to a reasonably clean-smelling alien as it walked away from the podium. “Excuse me,” he said, “is there an election soon or something?”

  “Well, of course there is,” said the alien, taken aback. “Ah,” it said, a smile of recognition spreading across its wide, massive face, “you must be new around here. Yes, there’s always an election on WMD. City council, mayor, lieutenant mayor, sergeant mayor, district representative, school board, parent-teacher association secretary, second assistant to the key grip, and WMD Idol judge. I think all of those elections are today.”

  “All of those?” Ian sputtered. “Just today?”

  “Oh sure,” the alien laughed. “It’s actually a pretty minor election day. Next week Tuesday there’s a close race for chief aide to the vice president, that’s a pretty big one.” It lowered its voice guiltily. “Most of these guys are just small-timers, and none of us would even bother voting if our jobs didn’t require it.”

  “Your jobs require you to vote?” Ian asked.

  “Sure. See that hologram on the left side of the podium? The one for UltraD
yne Computers? I work for them, and they’re one of this guy’s sponsors, so part of my job duties include going to his rallies, and, of course, voting for him later today.”

  “Your employer tells you who to vote for?”

  “Of course. They are sponsoring him, after all. So I make sure to put in the requisite number of hours supporting our candidates.”

  “What if you wanted to vote for someone else?”

  The alien laughed. “Why would I do that? If he gets elected, UltraDyne will get some nice tax breaks and other benefits, which means I’ll probably get a bonus this year, as opposed to being laid off. Plus, they’d know if I voted for someone else and fire me immediately.”

  “But, it just seems so … contrived.” Ian protested. He looked to the Twiller for support, but it just shrugged, apparently not surprised or particularly bothered by the system.

  “Isn’t this how you do it on your planet?”

  “No, of course not. You can vote for whomever you want. And companies can’t … I mean, they don’t officially sponsor … well, I suppose they can support certain candidates and donate to their campaigns. And I guess you could cynically argue that their support might earn them certain benefits down the line ….”

  The alien snorted. “I would expect so. Otherwise, what are they paying for? Do you mean that this sort of thing isn’t all worked out in advance? You don’t know ahead of time that Gold Level supporters get such-and-such tax breaks while Platinum Level supporters get the tax breaks and anti-trust exemptions, or looser emissions standards, or whatever?”

  “No!” Ian replied, with conviction.

  “Well, that’s a ridiculous system!” the alien exclaimed, gesticulating its tentacles wildly. “How does anything get done with such uncertainty? And wouldn’t that lead to all kinds of shady, back-room deals and corruption and double-crossing? Politicians promising anything to get campaign contributions, and rarely following through on their word? Your planet must be backwards if the purchasing of favorable legislation isn’t even all out in the open!”

  “Well, no, that’s not right,” Ian stammered, knowing the alien must be wrong but not quite sure how to rebut its arguments. “That’s a terrible system, where politicians are bought and sold by big corporations!”

  “Who would you prefer owned them? Smaller companies? Oh sure, sometimes they get together and form a coalition to go halfsies on a candidate or split up the cost of a political sponsorship, but—”

  “No, no,” Ian interrupted, “shouldn’t politicians, you know, have the best interests of the people at heart? Shouldn’t they do what’s best for the citizens?”

  The alien was laughing uncontrollably by this point. “Yeah, right, the citizens. That’s a good one! First of all, the companies are really nothing but big groups of citizens, when you think about it. But, more importantly, you think any citizens could afford the massive advertising costs of a big campaign? Well,” the alien added thoughtfully, “maybe the presidents of some of the large corporations, but they just procure their politicians through the companies they own. They get better tax write-offs that way.”

  Ian shook his head, flustered, but determined to talk some sense into this madman.

  “Sorry man,” the alien said, glancing at its watch, “I have to run. I’ve gotta get to another couple of campaign rallies before I vote, not to mention the spontaneous grassroots protest scheduled for 5:30 this afternoon. I still have a lot of work to do before I can go home.”

  “Wait a second,” Ian said, momentarily forgetting the argument. “What do you actually do for UltraDyne?” The alien just stared at Ian blankly. “I mean, what is your actual job there?”

  The alien shook its head, small tendrils of seaweed-like hair flapping in the slight breeze. “Didn’t I just explain my whole workday to you?”

  “That’s it?” Ian cried. “Attend rallies and speeches and protests and then go vote? That’s your job?” The alien nodded and Ian stared incredulously. “Well, what’s your job title, then?”

  “Senior Vice President of Legislation Procurement,” the alien said proudly, and stalked away on three stumpy legs that thundered like tree trunks as it made its way across the lawn to the next candidate.

  . . . . .

  Ian tried to distance himself from the main square and its endless parade of candidates prattling about better schools and lower taxes and more effort for bipartisan compromise with the imbecilic space slugs of the opposing party. While Ian hadn’t devoted much time or energy to politics back on Earth, and had pretty much ignored it on his travels as well, it seemed inescapable here on WMD.

  As he was walking, he was startled by a loud alien who shoved a flier in his face. “Right this way, sir, step right over here for the voter registration drive. Don’t worry,” it said, cutting off any attempt by Ian to respond, “I’ll take care of everything. The form is already pre-filled out, I will take care of your voter registration fee, and even provide you with the chip to insert into the polling station that will register your votes for all of the very best candidates and resolutions!”

  The persistent man wore the same strange garb as the politician on the platform, emblazoned with corporate logos and slogans. In fact, now that Ian got a closer look at this politician, he could see numerous logos tattooed across the alien’s limbs and even parts of his face. Those must be for the big donors, Ian thought, impressed in spite of himself.

  “And a flier for your Twiller, too,” the politician continued, trying to shove a much smaller flier at the Twiller, who scowled angrily, the tiny size of its mouth doing nothing to decrease the effect.

  “I’m not interested,” said Ian, his experience with protestors in Bez Erkeley serving him well as he extricated himself from the politician, who promptly pounced on another group of tourists that was happening by.

  Just then, a sporty aircar screamed past Ian, missing him by inches. It wove through the pedestrian walkway at reckless speed, until the driver lost control and slammed into a nearby utility pole. “Serves you right!” Ian shouted in the general direction of the accident, and he was relieved to see a police hovercar arrive promptly on the scene as the driver shakily stepped out of his wrecked aircar.

  Ian stalked over to the scene of the accident, angry at the driver’s wanton disregard for pedestrian safety in general, and more importantly Ian’s safety in particular. “I saw the whole thing,” he offered helpfully to the police officer, who was an impressively built specimen that made Ian glad it was on his side. “This guy sped through here like a crazy person and almost hit me and my Twiller friend. We’re lucky to be alive,” he added, for emphasis.

  “Twill,” added the Twiller helpfully.

  “I see,” said the officer, scanning the wrecked vehicle with some sort of hi-tech device. “Yup, looks like he was traveling about triple the posted speed limit and watching videos on his cell phone while he did it. Don’t worry,” it said to Ian reassuringly, “he will be punished to the full extent of the law.”

  The driver brushed himself off and looked at his ruined car forlornly for a brief moment, then shrugged and seemed to brighten up, even as the police officer approached him.

  “I’m sure I don’t even need to tell you what this ticket is for, Mr. Parlenwonger, since it’s your twelfth one this week.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said the driver, handing over his credit chit.

  “That will be ten bucks,” said the officer in as stern a voice it could muster. It swiped the credit chit and handed it back to the driver. “You’ve repaid your debt to society. Thank you, and drive safely.” The cop got back in its hovercar and floated briskly away.

  “T–that’s it?” stammered Ian, his face red with rage. “Ten lousy bucks? I paid twenty times that for a hot dog!”

  “Hey man,” said the driver, “lay offa me. You heard the officer: I paid my debt. Leave me alone.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope that car of yours costs a fortune to repair!” Ian spat disdainfully.

  “Ha
,” laughed the alien, brushing long locks of well-moisturized hair from his face. “My insurance will cover it, backworlder. See, here they come now.”

  Sure enough, a tow truck floated down and alighted near the wrecked aircar, with a pristine version of the same model strapped down to the back. A worker stepped out, lowered the replacement car to the turf with a remote control, and used a magnetic arm to secure the wrecked car to the back of the truck. It handed a small datapad to the driver, who signed it with a flourish. With that, it hopped back in its truck and zipped away.

  The driver flashed Ian a smug look and opened the door to his new car.

  “Well, I … I hope your premiums go way up!” Ian yelled, lamely.

  The driver shook his head. “That’s not how it works here, moron,” he retorted. “My insurance company is subsidized by the government; I don’t have to pay a thing.” He laughed and pointed to a nearby billboard. “Didn’t you see the last election?”

  Sure enough, plastered across the billboard was the smiling face of the mayor of WMD, with a huge AllGeic ProgFarm logo tattooed prominently on its forehead.

  The driver slid into the brand-new aircar, slammed the door shut, and the sleek vehicle sped away even faster than before.

  . . . . .

  Ian headed away from the scene of the accident, watching for speeding aircars and trying to come to grips with how things worked on WMD. In amongst the campaign offices and electronic sign stores that lined the street, Ian spied a bar that seemed to beckon to him. “I sure could use a drink,” he said, motioning to the Twiller. His little friend seemed to agree, heading directly for the bar as Ian struggled to catch up.